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Zack Ripley Feb 8
My stomach churns as I get ready to fly away.
Adrenaline rises as I hear a voice say...5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Then my rocket blasts off
toward the milky way.
Before I know it, 2 days have gone by. And as I look out the window,
I can't help but cry.
Because floating in the moonlight, even though I'm all alone
in a sea of stars,
it really hits home how small and connected we really are.
vanessa ann Mar 18
i’m a year to twenty.
soon to be twenty-one,
twenty-two, twenty-three,
twenty four, and suddenly halfway to fifty;
when life gets a little more busy,
perhaps with a few kids running around,
and god forbid—my breath smelling like whisky.

then i’d turn sixty,
hopefully still as witty
and my tongue just as filthy.

and perhaps by then,
i’d gladly sell my kidney,
because it’s no biggie,
if it means god takes pity
and returns me back to my fifties,
Amanda Dec 2019
Dreams of fir trees
Candy canes
Dancing Christmas lights
Gingerbread houses
And presents wrapped tight
Santa Claus with his sleigh and reindeer
Each merry day that passes brings Christmas more near
A little holiday poem for yall
Mystic Ink Plus May 2019

Feel the pain
Genre: Dark Abstract
Theme: Tik Tik || Countdown
EmVidar Mar 2019
10 days since
9 months over ruled
8 years of friendship bound by
7 promises over
6 countries and
5 broken toes in relation to
4 different accidents that left
3 scars on
2 bodies and
1 heart with
0 survivors
I thought that you were special to me and now that you are gone I know it was the only lie that mattered
kiran goswami Feb 2019
"Will we win mom?"
The eight-year-old questioned while gazing at his half bald reflection.

"The aliens of the cancer-ship have been destroyed, only a few are left."
The hopeless woman gave hope to her son,
while counting the number of days left.
Jubail Aquino Dec 2018
Another day was gone,
tomorrow is another day down.
...See you soon my beloved hometown!
Baguio City, Philippines - Hometown
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
The dog is nine years
three months
six days old
and still counting,
the old man sits and counts up in
a chair rocking on an old porch,
creaking floorboards faded wooden again
from turquoise,
turning raw in their old age.
Parts of the floorboard have chipped away beneath
the chairs wasted slats
and yet the old man still sits, counting
like a train whistling at a
trespasser on the tracks
like a stray hair curling from
it's braid
get off those tracks
'cause you know it's not your place.
All we ever do is rot back down to
the floors we came from
and maybe
all we end up doing is completing a week
and then we're not counting anymore,
and maybe
the chair doesn't rock back to dust
and forth to
nine years
three months
and six days old
and we sit on our old porches
watching the train tracks and
maybe we know it's not the
time or the place
but a train whistles at the
and we watch the young girl
and we count down, looking away
when it happens.
But we're not counting any more
and we sink into the porches we came from.
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